


As Green as Grass

by TheArchaeologist



Series: Apple of my Eye [4]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Aunt-Niece Relationship, Because she's using Five for her own gain, Canon-Typical Behavior, Child manipulation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Father-Son Relationship, Five is Klaus' Son AU, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's mainly The Handler being her creepy self but it also deserves a tag, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Parent Klaus AU, Parent Klaus Hargreeves, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, child grooming, infanticide mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23283430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: Growing up, Five meets a woman called The Handler on ten separate occasions.
Series: Apple of my Eye [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519883
Comments: 94
Kudos: 227





	1. 19th February 2006

****

**19th February 2006**

The Handler would not have risen through the ranks as quickly as she did if she was not in possession of a good deal of patience.

Most of it came with the job, a by-product of waiting to ensure the domino pieces fell in the correct line and didn’t diverge down an unintended path. Cause and effect is an easy game to play with the right endgame in mind, and The Commission is nothing if not diligent at seeing through a long-term goal.

Minute alterations for the biggest result. In a way, it is almost an art, narrowing down all those tiny details to derail an entire course of history. 

Those interventions can take any form as well, as is the beauty of it. Letters go undelivered, tea gets spilled instead of served, laundry goes one more day without a wash and a friendly face in a bar assures that one more drink couldn’t possibly hurt in the grand scheme of things.

Humans are, by nature, selfish, impulsive creatures, and nudging them an inch to the left is as easy as a few fancy words and the knowledge that people can be convinced to do anything if the right carrot is dangled before their nose.

Some of The Handler’s underlings are less inclined to the ‘sit back and wait’ strategy, insisting on big, bold statements that halt everything in their tracks and gains the attention of many. They want the credit, the brashness, the shining record filled with highlights and memorable names.

There is a reason why she has her own office, and they remain forever beneath her rule.

Still, that status is on the rocks, these days.

The orders were delivered in person, black suits with black ties, the paper still warm from the printing press.

_Ensure the survival of the Apocalypse._

A personal mission, overseen by superiors far less lenient then they may have been only a few months ago.

Only a few months ago, she still had Five under her thumb.

The bastard.

While the stunt in the Icarus Theatre brought the Hargreeves a little time, it would take a novice to be unable to track them down eventually. Their aim was to _fix Vanya_ , so to speak, so they were unlikely to go anywhere further than their own lifetimes, and even that is narrowed down once Five comes into the equation. He only had thirteen meagre years between his birth and the end of times to play with. 

Still, The Handler had assumed they would decide on a week, maybe a month or two, for their choice of destination.

She did not expect Five to only barely avoid passing when he was _conceived._

Once she realised that this was, in fact, what had happened, she then spent her time tracking down the mother, a pathetic girl of pale skin who seemed to cry a lot. She lived alone with her Grandfather, an elderly man who could be easily batted to one side should the need arise.

The need, however, did not arise.

This was the point The Handler began to plan.

Ensure the survival of the Apocalypse. Make sure the end of the world happens. Those are simple measures on paper, but in reality, reveal a web much more complex.

Vanya Hargreeves must end life on Earth.

In the same way forgoing laundry and spilling tea have their effect, so does the way in which planet Earth gets destroyed. To encourage a nuclear wipeout would leave all kinds of issues, impacting negatively on what is to take mankind’s place, and ramping up global warning would have minimal effects by 2019, only reaching mildly destructive levels.

Vanya Hargreeves needs to experience a strong, impactful emotion in order for things to happen as they should. Meanwhile her siblings have travelled back to the past with the hopes of mending their shattered relationships and preventing the same destructive emotions to fester.

What, then, could be more impactful then letting said dysfunctional mess of a family rebuild their broken bridges, only to have a dam break upstream and sweep it all away?

The Handler makes her decision and sends the relevant reports back to headquarters.

Despite the girl’s whimpering and sniffling, the pregnancy progressed unhindered, and the birth, while long and hard for someone her age, brought Five into the world exactly on schedule.

The girl gave up the babe a few days later.

While management praised The Handler for her ability to adapt to the situation, they insisted that, before she is given the full go-ahead, she confirms one thing.

One thing she will, finally, uncover today.

The mansion is silent.

Normally at this hour it would be expected to be a bustling hive of activity. Training, play dates, bonding, apologies, all stumbling along one after the other like uncoordinated and easily distracted ducklings. There is no schedule, just an overall sense that certain things should be done in the morning, and others in the afternoon.

However, today it is different, stifled, a symptom of the sickness running through the veins of half the Hargreeve siblings.

Ideally, she would have uncovered the answer for her superiors months ago, right back when Five was first dropped off. However, the father, the fourth in the litter of mistakes, has taken to being almost constantly by the infant’s side, even spending nights curled up in the rocking chair beside the cot. The times he does not, the robot takes over, ready to be there when Five wakes in need of feeding or changing.

This fretting has made it impossible for The Handler to get anywhere near.

Fortunately for her, Five has since been entrusted to three idiots.

“Like shit am I walking all the way to bed.” The third one, The Handler has yet to work out his name, comments, encouraging the one called Luther into the playroom as well. When Vanya hesitates, he adds, “We’ll hear him if he starts crying."

“Fine, you win. Five naps, we nap.”

“Sound logic.”

Five and The Handler did not interact during his week attempting to unravel the timeline, so if he ever told them of his work or what they do, she has no idea. There does not seem to be any safety measures in place, if he did, protecting them from the potential danger lurking around the corner. Maybe they did not believe him or failed to consider something outside their own lives. Perhaps they felt going to the past protected them, shielded them from an unknown they did not fully understand.

It takes less than a minute for them all to be sinking from consciousness, but The Handler allows for ten more before deciding it is safe enough for her to quietly walk by.

The bedroom door has not even been closed properly, allowing her to carefully push it open, slipping in and shutting it firmly behind her.

Inside the curtains, while thin to allow some light through, are drawn tightly, making the room dark and comfortable. A few toys are scattered on the floor, and the rocking chair sits motionlessly to one side, a blanket and a pillow neatly piled on the seat.

Approaching the cot, The Handler stares down at her former colleague.

It would be so, so easy to smother him.

The pillow is right there, waiting to be taken and pressed against round, rosy cheeks. Unlike adults, there would be none of the normal nuisances. Babies cannot fight back, cannot thrash, cannot even call out for help other than their normal wails. Five would barely have the chance to realise what was happening.

Still, that is not why she is here.

Leaning over the edge of the cot, The Handler runs a finger down Five’s face, humming when the baby squirms.

“Hello, Five.” She says lowly, watching as his face wrinkles. “Have you missed me?”

His feet kicking, Five begins to blink awake, making soft, unhappy noises. His eyes, when they open, drift about, not really focusing on her as he fusses, tiny hands fisting.

“Now, what do we have here?” Reaching down, The Handler scoops Five up, holding him at arm’s length with his feet dangling. 

He frowns at her, mouth drooling and wetting his clothes. 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Do we have a baby, pathetic and helpless?” Her head tilts in the opposite direction. “Or do we have Five, the assassin, the killer, the man broke his contract and tried to stop the Apocalypse?”

A long, pregnant pause follows, The Handler waiting, scrutinising, analysing every small detail and scanning each miniscule movement. She watches for a flinch, or the beginnings of a cry, a struggle to jump away or the dawning horror of realisation that he will be dead before his family can come running.

When none of those things happen, she hums, then walks towards the window. The curtains draw back quietly, and as easily as anything the babyproofed pane gets pushed up, open to the sounds and smells of the city and alleyway below.

The front of his clothes held in one hand, The Handler extends her arm out over the long drop, her face the picture of indifferent.

Seconds tick by, dragging as Five wiggles. If he was not going to cry before, there is no way he could ignore this now. The danger is too imminent, too likely, and he will know acutely that she has no qualms with infanticide. None of them at The Commission do.

She waits for fear, for terror, for an attempted act of self-preservation.

None of these things happen.

Instead, Five sniffles, then holds out his hands in want of a hug.

A red lipstick stained smile snakes up The Handler’s face. With a soft, cold coo, she brings Five over her shoulder, resting one hand soothingly against his back. Her fingers dance up and down, feeling the soft hair, the gentle fabric of his clothes, his tiny toes hidden under socks.

The famous Five Hargreeves, the legend, the betrayer, the unblinking killer, reduced to the mind, body, and soul of a baby. A feeble, vulnerable baby.

She feels him latch onto her hair and allows the child who was once one of her greatest hindrances to draw it into his mouth, chuckling when he splutters at the taste of hairspray and dye.

Five Hargreeves will not die today.

The Handler just needs to exercise a little patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when I said that the dates of the chapters mattered? 
> 
> Well [this date seems…familiar somehow…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274655/chapters/51515332#workskin)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


	2. 26th December 2010

****

**26th December 2010**

While the report came from Dot, the original authors were clear.

_Five Hargreeves is using his powers. Be in the alleyway to the south of the Academy at 4:32pm on the 26th December 2010._

Politely, these are instructions to get the cogs of the plan turning. There is only a limited amount of time, after all, before Five grows older and becomes too cautions to approach a stranger with any kind of trust. For this to work, they need him malleable, impressionable, ready to go along with the ideas they present to him. If they can nip certain buds at the right time, he will accept what he is told as another truth of the world and carry that for the rest of his life. 

The sturdier The Handler can build the foundations, the harder it will be for Five to knock those ideas down.

Impolitely, however, this is a message informing her that she is now being observed closely, less she makes another mess for The Commission to clean. A great weight rests on this little endeavour, most importantly the demise of the world, and to fail at the first hurdle would be a sure sign this entire mission is doomed to be another blemish to her organisation’s name.

Hence why The Handler currently stands in a dingy alleyway, her heels holding her above the splattered rubbish and what appears to be the remains of someone’s regurgitated dinner. The binmen have yet to do their rounds, leaving shiny plastic bags piled and lining the walls.

She tries to ignore the smell and checks her watch again.

Thirty seconds.

Turning on the spot, The Handler holds the briefcase securely in her hand, listening to the sound of traffic and people bustling like ants on a world set on a ticking doomsday timer.

A rat scampers among the food debris, lean and starving. It sits back and sniffs at her, caution bleak in its blank black eyes, before deciding she is no threat and continues its search along the remains of human activity, nibbling and testing as it goes. When it comes across a half spilled styrofoam container of kebab and fries it settles, small mouth working and tiny hands clasping at the measly, mushy offerings.

Twenty seconds.

Somewhere, horns blare furiously, voices, irate and heated, echoing around the high-walled streets.

One day, said walls will collapse and crumble, barraged by the flow of an uncontrolled power. For many, it will not be the impact that ends the world which kills them, but their own brick and mortar, blown out from their solidity and sent hurtling towards unsuspecting occupants. They will crush, dismember, smother and suffocate, like peddles crashing up the sand from a particularly strong wave, knocking down and knocking out whatever and whoever is in their path.

Ten seconds.

There was a certain beauty to the world after it’s destruction. The gas explosions and nuclear blasts were all well and good, perfect to watch after a foul day to lessen the building tension in the jaw, but in the months and years that followed, there was a tranquil aesthetic to the ruins of Earth as well.

It was seen in the way heavy tar floated on the ocean’s surface, and the oil slicks polluting rainbows in grungy pools. The mould could look intricate and bizarre, when given the right light, and after a time the delicate, bright green vines which wrapped over the remains of corpses and playgrounds brought a daring, fresh colour to the place.

Five seconds.

It was a miracle, really, that her old employee managed to scrape together a living in such a toxic, stained world. That he managed to stay relatively healthy and never succumbed to poisoning, injury, or rotten food.

Then again, Five always was a stubborn bastard.

Time to see if that trait spawned when he was young.

One second.

Just as the popping sound of space slices through the air behind her, The Handler activates the briefcase and vanishes in the soft whirl of blue. In real time, a full ten seconds drift by, which sees Five climb to his feet and orientate himself in the alleyway beside his house, however for her there is only a mere flash across her eyes and then it is over.

Landing in a light jog to give the impression she has hurried here, The Handler whips her head from side to side, frantically moving forward while ignoring Five stood behind her. Muttering under her breath, she peers between the bags and the rubbish, angling her body down as if to get on her hands and knees and peek under the bins as well. The rat scurries away with a squeak.

Five makes a surprised sound, something she is not sure she has ever heard before, and with gusto she spins on her heel, letting the weight of the briefcase momentarily overbalance her stance.

The Handler allows her mouth fall open in a mirage of shock, falling silent as she gapes at the small boy in front of her. The five-year-old gapes back, his eyes, as blue and as sharp as ever, flicking up and down. He leans nervously away, playing with the sleeve of his sweater, a range of emotions flicking across the delicate, round face of childhood.

_Awkward_ and _shy_ are not words The Handler ever imagined she would use to describe her former colleague, yet here they are.

For this she has foregone her typical attire. The entire aim is to begin building trust and waltzing in wearing the usual sleek dresses and designer cuts will only make her more intimidating. Less a friendly confidant and more a strict headmistress.

Therefore, this particular outfit was organised and given to her by Carla, approved by her superiors and receiving agreeable nods from former mothers now working at The Commission.

It is winter, and while the cold has never really bothered her, to avoid any instant suspicion she wears a teal coloured coat and a matching red scarf, hat, and gloves combo. A small knitted brooch of a crimson flower has been pinned to her chest, something that looks homemade and the work of a kindly grandmother, and her preferred open heels have been swapped for heeled boots, the buckles bright and shiny.

Her makeup has been tweaked, toned down both on the lips and around her eyes to give her a healthy, brighter tone. The waves of her hair have been pinned back as well, giving the impression that she is younger than her real years.

According to the former mothers, she looks like she should cross stitch and bake for neighbourhood garden parties and go to choir on the weekends. She could be an aunt, or a friendly kindergarten teacher on her day off, someone not directly in the family, but known, nonetheless.

Safe, familiar things for a child to latch onto.

Five is the first to break the silence, ever the bold bundle of personality. “You flew…” He whispers, glancing towards the briefcase then back up at her. A growing, childish excitement lights up in his face, as if he was just told she was the Easter Bunny. “You flew! Just like me! I can do that too!”

It strikes The Handler in that exact moment that his powers and the swirl of the briefcase look very similar to an untrained eye. One is controlled, deliberate, an act of precision finely tuned over thousands of years. The other is chaos in a bottle, perhaps tameable, perhaps not, and either way just as explosive.

The older Five, she knows, would argue it impossible to tell who possesses which. 

“Ah, so it was _you_ I heard. Well, isn’t that something…” She answers, lips forming into a delighted smile and words deliberately cryptic. A curious boy like him would never be able to resist to temptation to inquire. Not someone so hungry for knowledge.

He bites the bait and gulps it. “You heard me?”

“Space never lies.” Staying where she is, The Handler squats down neatly, positioning herself at Five’s eye-level. Slowly, she looks him over, forcing a growing wonder on her face. “For all the secrets it holds, space never lies, especially not to me. Who are you? Why could I hear you from across the universe?”

“I’m Five.” He tells her, shuffling on his feet. His teeth nibble along his lip, and a light frown, one The Handler recognises as the one he used to wear when working on calculations, crosses his adorable little face. “Dad calls my power _jumping_. Did you jump? Are you like me and Dad and my Aunts and Uncles? They all have powers too, but they’re not like mine. Yours are though, are you like me?”

“In a way.” She takes the briefcase and holds it out for him to look at. “Do you see this?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you know what it does?”

“No?”

Smiling, she lets her words sound heavy, holding serious weight. “My name is The Handler, Five. I am a _time traveller_.”

Five’s mouth practically hits the floor, gullible, accepting, the believing face of one so young. “You’re a time traveller?”

“Yes. It’s-”

“Have you ever seen a dinosaur?” Running up to her, Five barrages her planned sentences with an onslaught of dazzling, bright energy, “Or met a caveman? Where you there when the big bang happened? Uncle Luther told me no one was there when the big bang happened but maybe you-”

“Slow down now, Five, I can’t answer if you keep talking.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Grinning, The Handler takes Five’s tiny hands, holding them gently between hers. His fingers are cold in the December air, the child not dressed for the outdoor weather with his feet only in socks and a small sweater covering his arms. However, Five does not seem to notice, too enthralled by what she is about to say, and The Handler makes no move to offer her scarf or hat.

“I have a very special job, Five. It’s up to me to make sure time doesn’t get changed from what’s supposed to happen. A little while ago, I heard something, something I couldn’t work out the origin of. I thought I would try and track it. Also, yes, I have seen a dinosaur.”

The little gears inside Five’s head must be churning hard, because he ignores the dinosaur statement and asks, very seriously, ““Was it _me_ you heard?”

The Handler makes her face bloom with his correct guess. It hurts her cheeks. “It must be. You have a very special gift, after all, you can jump through space and be wherever you want to be.”

“Everyone else in my family has powers, though…” Five thinks aloud, “Weren’t you able to hear them too? My Dad’s a _lot_ older than me. He’s had his powers for _ages_.”

She jumps in before he can derail into unwelcome trains of thought. “They do, but I heard yours from all the way across the galaxy. You make the universe sing when you jump, Five. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” Contemplatively, she adds in, “You must be different to your family. They aren’t like you.”

“Oh.” Five says, nodding as his malleable, naive brain digests this. He sighs, the gesture reminiscent of one he used to do when at The Commission and tasked with a fiddly mission he would rather not deal with. “That’s true. None of them fly like I can. Maybe we could ask? Uncle Luther’s here, and Dad, maybe-”

Making herself suddenly look very scared, The Handler shakes her head. “ _Please_ don’t tell them, Five.”

He pouts. “Why?”

Hunching her shoulders small, she dips her gaze down to the floor. “In order to look after time, I have to stay a secret. If people found out what I did, they might take my briefcase away, and then I wouldn’t be able to travel anymore.” She pucks her lips, meeting Five’s eyes. “How can I look after everyone when I can’t time travel? The universe is relying on me.”

“Oh.” Clearly uncomfortable with her expression, Five pats her on the arm. It is a little sloppy. The Handler longs to smack it away. “I’m sorry. It’s ok, I won’t tell.”

“You won’t? Really?”

“Uh-huh. Dad told me that it’s bad to share secrets and I shouldn’t do it ‘cause I wouldn’t like it if someone did it to me. He said that makes the other person sad. He called it elves-dropping.”

The Handler is pretty sure he means _eavesdropping_ , and that he is muddling two different conversations with his father, but seeing as this works in her favour, she rolls with it. 

“I think I would be very sad if other people knew who I was and that we met, Five.”

“I won’t tell. I _promise_.”

Smiling, widely, enough to show her teeth, she takes Five’s fingers and squeezes them. “Thank you, Five. I knew I could rely on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unintentionally, I’ve made The Handler creepy Doctor Who.
> 
> Anyway, Happy Apocalypse Day!


End file.
